Jamie pulls out a small frame from his desk drawer and hands it to me.
My fingers press against it, but he doesn’t let go. “There is a fairly good chance you’re going to think it’s creepy I still have this, but just . . . Well, please don’t think it’s creepy, okay?”
Frowning, I take the frame from him and look down at the picture inside the glass.
At first I see two kids with teeth that are too big for their faces, with huge smiles and giant nostrils because they were both staring down into the camera lens when the picture was taken.
And then I realize it’s me and Jamie. It’s a photograph from a lifetime ago—a snapshot of what our friendship was like. Two wildly happy children with our faces close together and our arms around each other’s necks because sometimes we felt like one person.
“I don’t even remember taking this,” I say softly.
Jamie scratches his forehead and takes a deep breath. “I don’t want you to think I didn’t think about you. When I went back there, I always thought about you. I always wanted to talk to you. I missed you, Kiko. And I don’t want you to think I moved away and forgot about you like you didn’t matter.”
The room feels warm. It’s hard for me to concentrate. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you visit me?”
“It’s hard to explain.” There’s frustration behind his eyes. “It wasn’t because of you, I swear. I just . . . couldn’t be around you.”
I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. I’m not sure if his words are supposed to be comforting or hurtful. “Then why did you keep this picture?”
Jamie goes still. His eyes are ice and mine are fire. Why can’t we meet somewhere in the middle? “Because I missed you.”
He swallows. I swallow.
“And because I think you’re beautiful.”
My heart explodes from my chest and my body fills with starlight and hope. I don’t realize he’s stepped closer to me until I feel his fingers trail along the top of my shoulder. My body zaps to life.
He tilts his chin down, his blue eyes locking onto mine with urgency. I can’t pull my gaze away, or my shoulder away, or my body away. I’m frozen, but this time I want to be. Jamie is trying to hide his breathing, but it’s the only sound I can hear. He smells like spearmint chewing gum and the beach. I want to reach up and touch the softness of his chocolate hair. I want to trace my fingers against his jawline. I want to press my hand against the muscles that protect his heart.
I want to be more than friends.
Somewhere below us a door closes and the echo of footsteps bounces through the house.
“Guys? Are you upstairs?” Brandon calls out.
Jamie’s hand drops and he takes a step back. “Yeah, Dad. We’ll be down in a second.”
I take a step back too, and press my hand on the shoulder his fingers just left. I hold the frame out in front of me. “Thanks for showing me this.”
He pauses before taking it, not wanting to leave the brief world we built together but knowing we have to. I can’t stay up here when his dad is downstairs making enchiladas and probably waiting for us—it’s too weird.
When I walk downstairs and look over my shoulder, I see Jamie standing at the top of the stairs, watching me like there’s so much more he wants to say but can’t. He runs his hand over his collarbone and follows me anyway.
Whatever it was, it will have to wait.
? ? ?
I draw a black heart exploding in every direction, and inside is a girl made entirely of light.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Mom texts me: When are you coming home?
I text back: Is Uncle Max still there?
It takes her an hour to respond: Can you call me tonight? I want to know how you are.
I’m going to an art show. I’ll call you tomorrow.
Okay. I love you.
Okay.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Hiroshi Matsumoto doesn’t look anything like his photo in the magazine. He looks like he’s been electrocuted, for one. His black hair is wild and points in every direction, like someone who drove for hours with all the windows down. His warm ivory skin is free from a single imperfection, like a porcelain doll behind a glass case. And he’s shorter than the average person, but not short enough to be considered “short.” Like me.
I’m also pretty sure he’s wearing a dress. Or the longest shirt in the world. I can’t quite decide.
Pacing back and forth like a ghost haunting a museum, Hiroshi never makes eye contact with any of the people here to appreciate his paintings. He simply floats by them with peculiar disinterest.
It makes me nervous. If he isn’t interested in his adoring fans, he isn’t going to want a single thing to do with me.
I don’t have to look far for Jamie—he’s one step behind me, admiring a large painting of a flock of black swans pulling a carriage through the air. Inside the carriage is a voluptuous woman spilling over the edges with her hands up in the air like she’s on a roller coaster.
“These paintings are hilariously random,” Jamie notes.
“They’re amazing,” I correct with my head dipped low and my voice quiet. I’m afraid someone will hear me.
“Did you see the frog one?” Jamie asks with a grin. “It’s just a giant green frog—I’m not kidding—wearing a top hat.”
“But they’re so good,” I gush dizzily.
“What are you supposed to call this kind of art?” Jamie looks genuinely curious, even if he does think the paintings are silly.
“Pop surrealism is what the art people keep calling it.” His voice is mellow and soft, but it sounds like the only noise in the room. Hiroshi blinks at the painting on the wall like he’s not entirely satisfied with it. When he leans toward me, I can smell vanilla and smoke. “I’m not sure it’s supposed to be called anything though, really. It’s just my own brand of nonsense.”
Oh my God, Hiroshi Matsumoto from the magazine is talking to me.
“Oh, hey, you’re the artist,” Jamie says with blissful innocence. “Really cool gallery. I liked the frog.”
My face is burning—literally burning—and I think I’m going to pass out when I watch Jamie and Hiroshi shake hands.
“And your name?” Hiroshi watches me with small eyes the color of cocoa powder.
“Kiko,” I manage to whisper. My breath hiccups nervously.
“Ah, a cousin of mine,” he says with a mischievous smile. “I thought you looked part Japanese.”
“My dad’s side,” I tell him.
“Mine too. And my mother’s.” He’s chuckling slowly. Everything he does seems slower, like he’s in complete control of time and makes it match his pace instead of the other way around. He looks back at Jamie. “What about you?”
Jamie laughs easily. “I’m the odd one out, I’m afraid. My mom’s family is German, and I think my dad’s family was Scottish or something, but it was so long ago nobody knows for sure.”
“And do you speak German?” Hiroshi bounces on his toes.